Release
by Kiamirei
Summary: Heero finds a dangerous, addictive activity to give him release from the conflicts in his life. One-shot.


Release

By: Kiamirei

~I own nothing. Please feel free to give me your comments, if you wish; I'd appreciate them. 

                Heero wasn't a cutter. Not really. It was just a way of release from any and all emotion. Quite logical, when one really thought about it. He started out with unwanted emotional baggage, and ended up with calm detachment and slight satisfaction. It helped him accomplish his missions without complications brought on by things akin to Duo's hysteria, Wufei's rage, Quatre's regret, and Trowa's…. Well, Trowa was not one to allow his feelings to get in the way of the mission, but that was beside the point. They weren't even deep cuts. And besides, the pilot rationalized, he'd only done it a handful of times, a little less than ten, not enough to really qualify him as a cutter.

                The Japanese pilot could name the exact date when he had started, when he realized that he was too weak to deal with his own emotions and succumbed to finding ways to get rid of them. It had been the day he had rescued Duo from OZ, surprising himself by letting the other boy live, something he had not planned on doing. Afterwards he had been confused over his actions, and finally just got fed up with it all. His eyes had fallen on the small knife he always kept by his laptop, and before he really knew what he was doing, he had picked it up and cut his arm. It surprised him how good it felt. The American had never questioned him about the small slash; they were injured all the time in battle, after all, and a tiny cut was not even worth wondering about.

                It had worked like a charm. His anxieties about letting other people into his life and about deviating from his mission plans had disappeared, leaving a pleasant calm, and it was immensely easier to focus on the upcoming battle. He felt better, and there was none the wiser, so no one worried about him –Duo and Quatre tended to do that, sometimes, fools that they were, even though Heero had made no attempts at friendship, had even been callous on more than one occasion. It was a win-win situation, really. And he could not deny that he kind of liked it. There was something entrancing about seeing blood flow from a self-inflicted wound, to watch the crimson liquid seep out from the shallow cut, pooling in droplets he soon wiped up with a paper towel. As his lifeblood exited his body, it was as if a tiny part of his soul became free, escaping the worldly bonds placed upon it. There was the color, too, an enthralling shade of red, deeper than crimson, darker than maroon, a shade that it would be difficult to find in paint. It was also instructive. He had known that blood was sickeningly sweet, a taste that wasn't bad but caused his stomach to turn if he swallowed more than a small amount of it, but he had learned that when it came from a wound other than the lips it tasted much less metallic. The pilot was aware that he would never really need that knowledge, of course, but it was an interesting fact all the same. 

                "Something to tell my future grandchildren," he said wryly, holding the knife blade to his arm. Well, who knew? Maybe he could use the information to scare some enemy soldiers. 

He uttered a short laugh that sounded more like a cough than anything else, and pressed the sharp tip down, somewhat enjoying the small acute pain it caused, watching as droplets of red immediately sprang to the surface. Heero was well aware that 'normal' people did not do things like that. He was aware that 'normal' people would be very unsettled if he told them about his newfound hobby. Quatre would worry to no end. Wufei would berate him for being weak. Duo would take away any and all sharp objects and try to make him stop. Other people, he guessed, would ask something along the lines of, "doesn't it hurt?" Of course it hurt –most of the time, anyway. The pain was something that changed in significance; sometimes he wanted to feel it, other times it was something to work through and ignore. He supposed that other people would be disgusted. But he didn't care. They just failed to understand. He wasn't really causing himself any permanent damage; this was just a temporary thing. Emotions drove him crazy. He cut his arm. The feelings went away. In a while, his arm healed. End of story. Surely there was nothing wrong with finding release. After all, better this than allowing anything to hinder the mission. Hindered missions meant failed missions, and failed missions meant losing the war. His superiors would agree with him, no doubt. 

Heero watched the blood flow, knowing by now exactly how much time it would take for it to stop and how much of it there would be. But as satisfactory as this could be, he felt there was a certain shame that he took on by indulging in cutting himself.

_               There are so many others in much worse situations than I'm in,_ he thought. _Some people live on the streets, some people don't know where their next meal is coming from, or if they'll even have a next meal, some people get raped and beaten and stabbed, get their houses burned down or their possessions stolen or get kidnapped. They deal with it without cutting themselves. But me, all I do is blow things up. And kill people. _

                In the grand scheme of things, he felt, his life wasn't so bad. It was simply that he was a weak person, Wufei would say. And that was essentially true. He fought in a mobile suit that had a huge advantage over the ones used by the poor fools that Treize and Colonel Une used as cannon fodder, hid from his enemies, acted as a spy, killed people who had no real idea of exactly what OZ would do if they were allowed victory, sometimes killed innocent people to get at his targets, and avoided open battle when he could. He didn't actually have any other problems then finding a way to defeat OZ even though he was a part of a military force that consisted only of five teenagers. He behaved, in short, like a weakling. Heero knew why other people chose self-mutilation. Many had been sexually, physically, verbally, or emotionally abused, and found the same release as he did. Sometimes it was a symptom of another disease, such as depression or anorexia nervosa. Other did it to "feel alive," and yet others did it because it was one of the few things in their lives that they could control. Those people, he felt, were the ones with legitimate reasons; unlike them, he was just weak, wanted release from his emotions and anxieties. Wanted an easy way out. Mainly because of this, he could not think of himself as a cutter. But at the same time, he really didn't know what he was if not that. And then he had the nerve to cut himself, as if he had so many problems. There was shame in that, he felt. But that feeling only made him want to cut himself more, and so he continued to shut himself in a bathroom, pull out a knife, and part his skin.

_               Like that man, what was his name, _he thought_, the one who supposedly parted the seas. Only my sea really is red, not just in name only. _

Forcing himself to stop watching himself bleed, the Japanese boy held a wad of toilet paper on the fresh cut he had made, pressing down hard. He accepted the shame, for its burden was outweighed by its benefits. He felt embarrassed sometimes, sure, but a shallow gash took care of that quickly enough. Although when he was alone at night waiting to fall asleep, sometimes he would feel depressed and a little insecure, and in the secret depths of his soul, he would wish that he had someone to turn to, someone who would wrap their arms around him and tell him that everything was all right.

               And here Duo thought he was an emotionless freak. Oh, the self-proclaimed Shinigami had never told him that particular opinion to his face, of course; he had overheard the conversation accidentally. His Gundam had needed repairs, and he was on his way to go do it when he heard the conversation. Was he really odd? Yes. Callous? Sometimes. Obsessed with the mission? Always. But emotionless? Never. Trowa and Wufei, at least, understood. 

               "He's an emotionless freak," Duo had exclaimed, no doubt frustrated with his failure to give adequate responses to the American's attempts at conversation, as he hid just outside the room, listening, a slight frown on his lips. "You try to talk to him, he ignores you. You ask him a question, he gives one-word responses. You try to be nice, he just stares at you with those cold blue eyes of his. It's unnatural!" 

               "Don't say that, Maxwell," Wufei responded matter-of-factly. "Your views are marred by your insistence that your way is the only right way." 

               "That's not true!" 

               "Heero Yuy is the most passionate person I know," Trowa put in quietly.

               That had ended the exchange, which did not surprise him; the nickname the emerald-eyed boy had received from OZ –The Silencer- had been aptly given in more ways than one. Heero was not sure how Quatre felt about him, but he had a feeling that the blonde was frightened of him a lot of the time. So yes. Trowa and Wufei understood that he was by no means unemotional. But none of them would truly understand his reasons for doing what he did. Heavyarms' pilot would accept it, but could not relate, because unlike him the taller boy had no emotions to be burdened by. It didn't matter, anyway. And besides, he didn't do this on a daily basis, maybe once or twice a week, three at most. Even saying that he cut himself often would be a bit of a stretch. Wouldn't it?

                He wasn't a cutter. Not really. He just found release. 


End file.
